Sherlock Holmes and the Archaeologist's Mystery
by Marlow the Great
Summary: I tried to incorporate as much info as I could in there, but if it's historically inaccurate or there's something wrong, please let me know! I would love to improve my writing.
1. Chapter 1

The archeologist answered the door with a surprised look, which faded into a smile.

"You must be Doctor Watson. Fantastic to meet you, simply fantastic." The man shook his hand so quickly and ferociously that Watson had to hold onto his hat to keep it from falling off. Holmes, who was generally a cluttered man himself, was still surprised at such an extreme of messiness. The mere thought of a person owning so many things, or keeping them, for that matter, would have been a shock to anyone.

They walked into the archeologist's house. Every drawer was stuffed and overflowing with miscellaneous items; papers, rocks, notes, and seemingly endless amounts of knick-knacks. The tables were stacked with filled field journals and pottery fragments, ancient jewelry and bones, fossils, tusks, leaves. Stacks upon stacks of notes with writing filling every hint of the papers made the simple, small, two-story house into a labyrinth.

"So sorry for the clutter, gentlemen. Please, do come in! I'm William Shnide, head of the archeological research department of London; it's an honor to meet you both, my esteemed compatriots! Tea?"

"Thank you, no," said Sherlock Holmes in a rather dull tone, "we are here to discuss other matters."

Shnide's smile faded.

"That sounds serious," said he. "I only assumed you came to hear of my new research."

Watson shook his head, "How do you know Samuel?"

"Samuel? Oh. He is my neighbor. Haven't seen him around, the fool. Why? What has he done?"

"He's dead."

"Oh, God…How?"

"We don't know. We haven't found the body, however, we can verify that he is dead because of the provided evidence from his last known whereabouts."

"Well, I can't say that I liked the man, but it's a strange feeling, someone you've known all these years, suddenly dead…"

"You get used to it," sighed Watson, staring into space.

Shnide looked up at him.

"Oh, I apologize," said John, snapping back into reality, "I do not want to interrupt your mourning."

"Well," said Shnide, "It isn't exactly _mourning, _more of just…"

"Bewilderment and sadness of a human life lost," finished Holmes.

"Precisely, and I suppose you have experienced this, Mister…"

"Holmes. And all too often."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." Shnide paused. "I can take your coat and your hat. I mean, if you would like me to-"

"I'm fine, Mr. Shnide. Thank you."

Watson looked at his watch, then asked, "Mr. Shnide, will you tell us a little more about your work?"

"Oh, of course!" He said, obviously pleased. "I have traveled to many foreign countries, researching their peoples' pasts. What most intrigues me is Egypt; the Egyptians would use honey and oils to preserve their leaders' bodies when the leaders had fallen. Did you know that?"

"I can't say that I did," said Watson. Holmes only lit his pipe.

"I'll show you. When I lived in Africa, I collected a fine assortment of artifacts. Did you know that the Egyptian people worshipped cats? Imagine if they could see the scruffy things that walk the streets of London! Follow me."

The two men followed Shnide to a room on the second floor, filled with Egyptian coffins.

"Aren't they magnificent?" Said Shnide, in awe of his own collection. "Did you know-"

"You enjoy your work, don't you?" asked Holmes.

"Oh, excessively so! I love it!"

"May we…take a look inside a coffin?"

Watson gave Holmes a disapproving look. Was it proper to ask such things?

"Oh, no, it's quite alright," said Shnide upon seeing Watson's face. "Of course, here!"

He slowly creaked open the coffin lid, spiders darting in every direction on the floor, abandoning their cobweb refuges. Watson gasped in sight of the old, decrepit thing in the coffin. It was shriveled and tiny, yet it looked as if it could come alive at any moment. It was neatly and tightly wrapped in yellowed gauze. It was dark and old and musty, yet impossible to look away from. There was no telling the sex of the thing, nor the age. There was no way of telling how long it had been there.

No telling how long it had been there.


	2. An Addition to the Story

**Author's note: I apologize for not putting this out earlier. I would like to add that these chapters are not necessarily in order, but I haven't written the entire thing yet.**

**Thank you for your continued support!**

"This is the last known whereabouts of the victim?" Holmes adjusted his hat, asking the police officer.

"Yes, however, the body is not located here."

"I wouldn't be so sure of myself, officer."

"I beg your pardon, but I assure you that we have thoroughly searched the entire area-"

"I never doubted that you had searched the area. But killers are creative, officer. There's so little evidence that for all we know, the body could be in the soup that your wife makes tonight."

The officer made a face mixed with disgusted doubt. Watson only nodded. He had seen more than he would have preferred of –as Holmes put it- "creative" deaths.

"It's all fun and games until you have to hide the body," said Holmes jokingly. The officer didn't pick up on his humor and was astonished.

"You treat the situation as if it is hardly horrific! It isn't as if you've killed a man yourself!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Don't be preposterous. You have never been charged with murder, Mr. Holmes."

"Exactly," said Holmes with a wink. The police officer was horrified. Watson only suppressed laughter. It was true that Holmes could most likely successfully kill all of London if he tried, but, even if Holmes was reluctant to admit it, he was a good man.


End file.
